


cover me in flames

by steponthegaslys



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Hurt/Comfort, Jos Verstappen's A+ Parenting, M/M, Red Bull Racing, Self-Hatred, Sick Character, fortunately the other red bull boys are not, max is kinda a dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:00:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25291291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steponthegaslys/pseuds/steponthegaslys
Summary: "His dad might be a dick, but he’d got dynamics in racing right. That was why Max was so driven too - he was a beta running in a race with alphas in every other top spot, and he was going to have to overcome so much fucking more than them to get his championship."Max might be wrong. Daniel might have to fix it.
Relationships: Daniel Ricciardo/Max Verstappen, Pierre Gasly/Charles Leclerc
Comments: 14
Kudos: 197





	1. fanning the flames

The Spanish Grand Prix had been pretty good for Max for the past two years. Of course, this season had to be the exception.

He’d woken up that morning feeling sick to his stomach and clammy, but he’d put it down to waking up from a shit dream. He couldn’t remember said dream, but it was better than any alternative explanation - he wasn’t going to be sick on a fucking race day. No way. Not when he was second in the championship, a few bad races for Hamilton away from snatching a title for himself.

So he’d sucked it up, swallowed down some medication, and got his ass out to the track.

* * *

The race had gone terribly. He’d lost control of the car going into turn 1, managing to take out not only his own car, but Alex and both Alpha Tauris as well. Not a single Red Bull car had even got into lap 2, and he’d never seen Horner and Dr Marko so livid with him. 

Worse still, the engineers couldn’t find a reason on the car for it spinning. It hadn’t been en engineering fault - it had been a Max Verstappen fault, and nobody had let him forget it. He’d had to walk away from the press in the end, knowing he was going to lose it with someone if yet another person asked him what had happened, was the racing prodigy starting to slip, all while his phone kept buzzing constantly in his pocket with angry texts and missed calls from his dad. 

Thinking back over it, he’d braked too late, slammed on, and lost the front - and somehow only managed to take out the team’s cars, rather than anyone elses. Maybe if he’d left one car on the road, and took out a Mercedes instead, they wouldn’t be having a joint debrief with Alpha Tauri, where Max was going to have to look at the faces of everyone he’d disappointed. 

Fuck. That sick feeling from this morning was creeping back just thinking about it. 

As he approached the motorhome, he could see Pierre speaking to Charles, tucked behind a corner. The youngest alpha at Ferrari was fresh off a win, and Max’s hands clenched into fists thinking about how that should have been _his_ win, how he should have been through that corner or at least have taken the red car out with him.

Why Pierre had to pick Max’s fucking rival as his mate, he didn’t know. He supposed it was the same stupid omega thinking that had got him demoted last year. His dad had said plenty of times that omegas just didn’t have the mentality to be in the top teams, not aggressive enough in the corners and too easily mentally broken. And Pierre had proved that 100% correct, hadn’t he? Things had got better once they got an alpha back into the second spot, and the omega went back to the midfield where he belonged. They just weren’t built for it.

His dad might be a dick, but he’d got dynamics in racing right. That was why Max was so driven too - he was a beta running in a race with alphas in every other top spot, and he was going to have to overcome so much fucking more than them to get his championship.

As he approached, he could see them both look at him, brows furrowed. Probably talking about him then. He’d show them on the fucking track. Pierre looked away again, but he could feel Charles’ eyes on his back as he walked up the steps to get into the motorhome. 

Bastard.

He didn’t bother looking at anyone as he made his way through, going to sit in the seats reserved for the four drivers. Another of Marko’s great plans there, sticking him with the very people who’s race he’d ended. That was definitely going to smooth things over.

Daniil was already there, and Max promptly got in the seat next to him. The russian beta would be a balm to the stupidity that this meeting would end up bringing out. Marko had been stinking of pheromones since the start of the race weekend, so he knew this was going to turn into a shit storm of a meeting. 

Pierre was the next in, and the very sight of him got Max’s back up. He didn’t really know why - there was the meeting with Charles, sure, but their relationship was an open secret within the paddock and had been going on for at least a year. Today though, it was really pissing him off.

Pierre didn’t seem fazed by the thoughts running through Max’s head though, instead going to sit on Max’s other side. The idiot even had the gall to look _concerned_ as he leaned over and whispered to him, “You look a bit pale, are you okay?”

And Max could feel his temper flare as he heard that. The frenchman was fucking mocking him, wasn’t he? It didn’t matter that he was right, Max did feel sweaty and clammy and like he might vomit right then and there, but Pierre didn’t get to be right about it. That was probably what him and Charles had been talking about, how weak and useless he must have looked, how best to point it out to -

“Woah. Calm down,” frowned Daniil, spotting the way Max’s hands had become balled into fists at the frenchman’s question. “He was just being nice.”

“Well I’m fine. So he can stop,” huffed Max, sinking back into his seat. The beta’s eyes on him felt piercing, judgemental for getting annoyed at Pierre. Why couldn’t the other beta see the shit that was behind that comment? He knew he was right, because Pierre just gave him a look and pulled out his phone instead.

Alex was one of the last people to filter into the room. He’d taken the brunt of the impact in the crash, Max assumed he’d been at the medical tent, though it looked like all was fine judging from how he’d walked in. He was definitely angry though, not meeting Max’s eyes as he walked past and slotted into the seat on Pierre’s other side.

  
And Alex being angry at him _hurt_ , and Max didn’t know why. He was Max fucking Verstappen, he’d had plenty of other drivers get mad at him, hell, he’d even had Alex be angry and resentful about him before, but today it actually stung.

* * *

He’d known from the outset that this meeting was going to be a complete pile of shit. Somehow it had ended up being worse.

They’d sat and picked apart that first corner apart for two fucking hours - engineers repeatedly saying how they’d examined the car, it wasn’t the brakes, it was a driving issue. Marko saying it couldn’t be, Max had 5 years of experience in that car, a double edged sword with the undercurrent that _how the hell could Max have fucked up so bad,_ detailing how many millions of euros in damage he’d cost them. 

Then there’d been the very fucking open conversation about the driving. How many front wings had Max broken now, and why wasn’t he taking full advantage of Ferrari’s fall from grace? Why was Pierre outpacing Alex in qualifying, when Alex had the superior car? Why was Daniil still here, if he’d been outpaced by both Alex and Pierre? Was Pierre still a mental fuck up like in early 2019? How many crashes had there been this year now? 

They’d all reacted differently. He could see flashes of the alpha Alex might actually be, nails digging into his palms as he held the anger in. Pierre had kept his face completely blank, but his knee had been bobbing a hundred times a minute, a channel for the energy it was obviously taking to hold back. Daniil somehow had just sat there and took it, face impassive, and that was the approach Max had decided to go with.

Honestly, Max would rather be one on one with his dad’s critiques. Sure, they were harsh, and personal, and cut to the bone, but they were 100% true. They were meant to develop him turn him into the championship winner he and his dad both wanted him to become. He could learn from them. These engineers and strategists just didn’t know racing like Jos Verstappen did. 

His thoughts drifted to what circle of hell this meeting could have become were his dad actually allowed anywhere near Red Bull. Circle 7, probably, for violence, but at least it would take the pressure off him for a bit. 

* * *

It ended after three long fucking hours. He’d tuned out after giving an apology, deciding there was nothing more that could be done. It seemed mostly smoothed out by the end, and all Max wanted to do was go back to his motorhome and go to fucking sleep. Maybe it would help him stop feeling the sickness that kept rising in his throat, or the way his muscles were starting to ache. 

He got up as quickly as he could, stalking out of the motorhome and stomping down the stairs. He was feeling pretty terrible by now, and knew that he needed to get back to his motorhome as quickly as possible. He needed to get his shit packed, and get himself on the plane to Monaco as soon as he could. Two days downtime, then ready to take on Monaco, and rip a first place away from Charles Leclerc.

Charles Leclerc who happened to be stood across from the motor home as Max left, checking his phone every so often. Max gave him a glare as he walked down the stairs, but wasn’t expecting the Monegasque alpha to make his way over to him. “You look like shit. That bad?”

“Not as shit as you’re going to look next sunday,” growled Max, pushing past him. The contact between their arms gave him a warm tingly feeling against his skin, and he thought that the fact he stumbled might be partly down to the distraction. The same tingly feeling was there as Charles caught him before he completely face planted the ground, and the fact he’d been able to do that just made Max more angry.

“What the fuck, man?” growled Max as he stood back up, pushing Charles away. There were footsteps behind him then, as the other drivers started to come out from the meeting. 

“You really need to stop fighting everyone today,” sighed Alex, and the words stung the same way knowing he was angry earlier had. 

“People need to stop being fucking annoying, more like,” huffed Max, stalking off towards his motor home.

* * *

Sleep, medication, and fifteen minutes of dry heaving in the bathroom had completely failed to make Max feel any better. In fact, he was pretty sure he felt worse - his hands had been shaking as he packed the last things into his suitcases. His phone remained firmly off as he threw it in his bag, making his way to the taxi to the airport.

He sank back into the seat, closing his eyes as he was driven. He’d be home in just a few hours - his own apartment, not running into drivers constantly, and some time for an actual rest. That had to make him feel better, right?

There was just the small matter of the flight there. Another hour and a half in close proximity to Alex who was somehow managing to actually get to him, Pierre who had annoyed him on sight today, and Daniil who seemed irritated by the whole situation. Red Bull hadn’t ever really had its strengths lie in creating strong team atmosphere, but this truly had to be a low point. He’d been expecting worse when he arrived in the lounge reserved for them. Each of the other three drivers were already there, in comfortable clothes and lazing around on their phones. 

He thought about doing the same, then remembered the missed calls, the texts, everything that’d be on there from his dad and thought better of it. Instead, he sat on one of the couches, deciding that trying to sleep would be a better use of his time. It didn’t last long though, vomit starting to force its way up his throat within half an hour.

He got up, rushing over to the bathroom. The last bits of the meal he’d forced down before the racecame back up after a few heaves, and it felt like he could finally catch his breath.

“Jesus christ, you look ill,” sighed Alex as he came in and got a good look at him. “Do you want me to get you a drink?” he asked, crouching down next to him.

There was no hiding it now then, he guessed. “I’ve got one. In my bag,” he admitted, rubbing his hands over his face as Alex called to the other two drivers to get it for him. Pierre came through after a minute, wordlessly giving Alex the water to pass to him and giving Max’s hair a quick ruffle before leaving again. 

“How long have you felt like shit then?” sighed Alex, crouching down on the floor. “Is this what caused… you know?”

“Since this morning. I don’t think it caused the crash though, no,” said Max, leaning back against the wall of the bathroom. At least it seemed clean, and the tiles were cold on his overheated skin. Maybe he’d just stay here until it was time to board.

“You should have said something. Pierre had said you’d looked like shit, but I didn’t get a look at you in the meeting. For obvious reasons,” murmured Alex. 

“Maybe,” said Max, realising he probably wasn’t going to get out of this one without going along with whatever Alex said. “I just want to go to sleep now, to be honest.”

“Fair enough. Do you think you can get up, or do you want some help?”

“I can get up. I’m not dying or anything,” sighed Max, getting up. He firmly ignored the black spots in his vision as he did, stubbornly managing to get back to the couch he’d been on before. He’d closed his eyes, ignoring the concerned looks from Daniil and Pierre, and drifted off to sleep fairly quickly.

* * *

“Max,” sighed Pierre, closing the door to the plane’s bathroom as he came in.

The vomiting hadn’t stopped, much to everyone’s disappointment. Pierre, Daniil and Alex had been taking turns going into the bathroom to check on Max and make sure he was okay. Apparently now was Pierre’s turn, however apprehensive the frenchman seemed about it.

“I’m fine. Haven’t thrown up in about ten minutes,” sighed Max, from where he was sat on the floor, leaning exhaustedly against the wall.

“That’s an improvement,” murmured Pierre quietly, teeth gnawing at his lip as he crouched down. “Max. Why were there suppressants in your bag? I thought you were a beta.”

“What do you mean? There’s no suppressants in my fucking bag,” frowned Max.

“Yes there are,” said Pierre, reaching into his pocket to pull out a small gold packet. “These are what they look like.”

“Those aren’t suppressants, you idiot,” said Max, growing more annoyed. “They’re vitamins, and you better give them back. Why were you going through my bag?”

“It was when I was getting your water,” said Pierre, eyebrows furrowed. “And these are actually mine. My suppressants. And you have a pill pack in the exact same packaging in your bag that you’ve apparently been taking. Where did you get them?”

“My dad came up with the plan along with the nutritionist. My vitamins look like your suppressants. Who gives a shit?”

“Your dad. Right,” sighed Pierre. “How long have you been taking them? Without a break?”

“Since I got into F3. Why are you so bothered?”

“So six years,” murmured Pierre, further gnawing at his lip. “You’ve took them every day for six years straight.”

“Of course I fucking have. Twice a day, every day,” said Max, rapidly growing annoyed with this line of questioning. Trust Pierre to get hung up on stupid things like vitamins.

“Twice a day?” asked Pierre in surprise. “That’d completely block -“

“It wouldn’t completely block anything, because it’s a fucking vitamin Pierre. Drop it.”

“Right,” sighed Pierre, and part of Max wanted to slap the concerned look off his face. Fortunately for him, the frenchman got up and made his way out of the small bathroom. “I hope you feel better soon, Max.”

* * *

“What the fuck do you mean, he’s been taking suppressants for the past six years straight?” whispered Charles, looking at Pierre in shock. 

  
“Shh, shh,” whispered Pierre, glancing around to check none of the other drivers or crew had managed to get through customs yet. Being a frequent flyer at Nice since childhood had its advantages, and Pierre had taken full advantage of that to get Charles alone, away from the crowds. They had the advantage of being able to speak hurried french to each other, fast enough that only native speakers would understand, and he doubted Romain or Lance would care to eavesdrop, but there was still a worry. “He said they’re vitamins. That his dad got him. And he’s been double dosing them all that time.”

“He’s a fucking idiot. I knew he was giving off some weird pheremones,” murmured Charles. “What do we actually need to do?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Pierre. “I only delay my heats for 9 months at a time, don’t I? And you’ve seen how I get after that. Six years is just going to… whatever it is is going to be bad.”

  
“So we need an alpha for him. Someone who he trusts, who won’t take advantage of the situation, and who can survive a few days with Max Verstappen without genuinely wanting to kill him,” murmured Charles, glancing around.

And Pierre didn’t know exactly which god he’d managed to please, but as though by magic, Daniel Ricciardo was the very next driver to come through the airport gates.


	2. fever pitch

Max was rapidly getting the feeling that he wouldn't just be left to sleep this off.

  
He’d managed to stumble off the plane with Alex worriedly following a few steps behind him. Pierre had rushed off ahead, passport already in hand, and Max knew that could mean nothing good after their talk on the plane.

His suspicions were proven right when he spotted Pierre with Charles, looking way, way too calm. That bastard must have done something, and Max was going to give him a piece of his fucking mind. Maybe he’d even drag Marko into it to really fuck with him. 

He’d do it when he felt less dizzy. In the meantime, he’d sit and glare at him from a bench.That sounded like a good idea right now. Or it did until Charles made his way over to him.

“You’re truly an idiot, aren’t you?” sighed the Monagesque, sitting down next to him.

  
“Am I now? What shit has he told you then?” grunted Max, glaring at him.

“That you’ve been taking suppressants for years without realising. And now you’ve got enough built up hormones to tip an elephant into heat,” said Charles, not missing a beat. “And that you’re going to be feeling really fucking miserable.”

“The last part is right. The first is bullshit. I think I’d know my own biology,” said Max, looking over to watch Pierre disappear into a pharmacy. Stupid, stupid omegas. Shit for brains.

“See, I’m not so sure you do,” said Charles, reaching over to press his hand to Max’s forehead.

And as much as Max hated it with every fibre of his being, Charles’ skin against his was like a soothing balm. The nausea he’d been feeling ebbed away into the background of his mind, and he suddenly felt less shaky. “The fuck are you doing?”

“Calming your hormones down a bit. Didn’t know it’d work that well though,” murmured Charles. “Listen. I know you’ve been denying this shit for years to yourself. But it’s the truth. You’ve got the physical symptoms, you’re getting irrationally angry at Pierre because he’s another omega in your personal space, and me touching you is helping. _Me_.”

“So fucking what?” huffed Max. 

“So, we’ve sorted out an alpha who you won’t want to kill. And can deal with your shit,” said Charles. “Pierre’s going to go get you some stuff and talk him through it, since I doubt you actually know what you need.”

“You set me up with some random fucking alpha? What the actual _fuck_?”

“Not exactly. You know him. It’ll be discreet,” said Charles. “Open your eyes and look.”

So Max did, eager to have further ammunition to use against Pierre whenever he felt up to it. 

And felt his throat go dry as he saw Pierre leaving the pharmacy with a full bag, and Daniel Ricciardo trailing after him.

* * *

“So how did they drag you into this?” sighed Max, sliding into the passenger seat of Dan’s car.

“They said you needed help. And we’re friends, so I said yes,” said Dan, shrugging.

“That simple?” 

“They also said it had to be someone who wouldn’t want to kill you after spending a few hours with you,” said Dan, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’m probably the only alpha who’s qualified for that.”

“Probably,” admitted Max. When he thought it through, Dan probably was the best choice out of the grid. He had to give Charles and Pierre props for that.

“Definitely,” said Dan. “I’m gonna warn you in advance that I’ve never done this though. Pierre and Charles kind of gave me a sparks notes version and said I could call them if I needed it, but…”

“It can’t be that hard. Charles manages to do it.”

“I suppose he does,” laughed Dan, and the sound of his former teammate laughing so openly about such a shit situation somehow didn’t piss Max off. Instead it made his breath catch in his throat, and gave him butterflies in his chest. 

* * *

“Why does all this stuff have the writing in french?” sighed Daniel, looking through the pharmacy bag.

“Probably because we were in France when he bought them,” murmured Max, from his position in his bed. That sick feeling was creeping back in again, feeling more unbearable now he knew that alphas were able to make it mostly fade away.

He needed Daniel to come back to the bed. Lay next to him, or some sappy bullshit like that. Whatever. He just couldn’t have him across the room, looking through little boxes that Max didn’t get why he needed anyway.

But he couldn’t bring himself to ask. Was this what he’d been reduced to? To needing some alpha to look after him? He felt so fucking weak. His dad had been right - omegas were lesser, useless, _pathetic_ , and if he was one, he was never going to become a champion if he was one, he was going to let everyone at Red Bull down, he was going to let his _dad_ down, and he couldn’t, he just couldn’t -

“Maxy?” asked Dan, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Shit, are you gonna puke?”

“I might,” admitted Max, swallowing down some saliva. He didn’t think he had anything left in him. “Fuck, how do people do this?”

“I don’t think most… your situation is kind of different,” said Dan with a sigh, coming over to the bed to sit next to him. “I’m going to have to text them. Get them to translate and tell me what to do.”

Max had to hold in a sigh of relief when Dan was back next to him. He could text them all he wanted as long as he stayed close, really. Max let his eyes drift back shut, trying to push away his earlier thoughts of what all this shit actually meant for him long term. Maybe he’d just become a midfield driver, like Pierre, or Lando, or Esteban. Sure, they weren’t champions, but they were probably going to be able to drive for a few more years. Probably be able to commentate races in their home countries. Pierre had Ferrari’s next big thing to take care of him, and he was pretty sure Lando would end up with Carlos soon enough. 

“Okay. Pierre said you need to take this,” said Dan, finding one of the boxes. “Then some others when this kicks in. This one first.”

Max was too exhausted to even bother opening his eyes, instead just reaching for the box, popping a pill out and swallowing it down dry. “Did he say how long?”

“Ten minutes. It’s meant to make you feel less shit,” said Dan. 

“And what are the others for?”

“Lots of stuff. Hormone stuff. I’ve seen Esteban taking this stuff though, so it probably works.”

“I forget you have to deal with him. Poor you.”

“He’s not that bad. Not quite as mouthy this year,” said Dan, shrugging. “Not the biggest fan of Red Bull though, as you’d expect.”

“What’s he got to be not a fan of us for?”

“You mean aside from his fight with you and a long running feud with Pierre? Plus I don’t think he likes Alex much.”

“All three are on him,” said Max simply. “Why doesn’t he like Alex?”

“Dunno. He just never seems happy about him having good results,” said Dan. ”He’s never said anything specific.”

“How does he deal with this shit then? I doubt he’s got a mate.”

“He just has them every so often, I think. Takes himself away for a day and deals with it himself. I don’t know any more than that.”

Maybe that was an option. Sure, Max didn't know much about this shit, why Pierre hadn’t ever seemed to have to deal with this, and why Esteban clearly did, but he’d rather not have to depend on an alpha. Or ever get to this point again, really.

* * *

Max had to admit, the combination of medication he’d been given finally had him feeling a bit better. He’d been able to force down some food, get a nap, and get a shower in, which had all contributed to making him feel human again.

And Dan had been as helpful as he could through it all. Max was pretty sure that this whole thing was going to give the older man worry lines though, because he still looked so _concerned_. 

Which Max didn’t really get, since he felt so much better. Not well enough to get into a cockpit any time soon, but enough that he didn’t think Dan should be worried about him. “Cheer up, old man.”

“Huh?” asked Dan, looking over at him.

“You’ve been looking like I’m about to keel over for the past half an hour.”

“Maybe you look like you are,” said Dan. “Not really. Just thinking about how fucked up a situation this is.”

Anger flared up in Max. “What do you mean?”

“The whole thing. I looked up the suppressant thing. I’ve never needed to know anything about them, you know?” said Dan sheepishly. “The longest you’re meant to take them is for a year. You took them way longer than that.”

“Yeah well. Didn’t kill me, did it?”

“Might have, eventually. I don’t know.”

“Dan,” said Max grumpily. “It’s not. Plus I guess I’m not going to be able to do it again. I’m sure I’ve been ratted out to half the grid now, with how loose Charles’ lips get when he’s drunk.”

“I have a feeling he’s being kept busy enough tonight,” said Dan. “You better not do it again. You need to figure out another way to deal with this.”

“Pierre takes them. He told me that, it’s how he knew what they were,” said Max. “So they clearly aren’t all bad.”

* * *

Max could feel his temper fraying as the days went on. 

He thought it would just be a one day thing, that he’d be able to take the medication, feel better with Dan around, and all would be well.

He was still constantly teetering on the edge of sickness two days later though. He had one more day to get over this shit until it was thursday, where he’d have to face cameras, and reporters, and a grid full of drivers who probably knew by now what exactly was going on with him. Not that any of them had texted or phoned, the twats.

He’d even phoned Pierre multiple times, begged him to tell him why he wasn’t fixed yet. “I don’t know, you just need to get it out,” had been the answer he’d eventually got out of him, which was about as much use to Max as when his dad used to just tell him to “Figure it out” when he was given a shit kart.

And Dan had grown equally as frustrated, Max could tell. He obviously hadn’t thought this was going to be a days long thing either, and whatever he’d been doing to try and fix this wasn’t working. 

They’d been disagreeing a lot - over status, whether his dad should have done things differently, about sleep and blankets and how they both lay in Max’s bed. And it had created a tension that hadn’t ever really been there with Dan before, that Max wanted to snap.

It had come to a head when Marko had called. He’d wanted to know where Max was, why hadn’t he been training, why hadn’t he been on the team conference call.

And Max had been honest. He’d never feared Marko like Pierre and Alex and Daniil and Daniel and Brendon all had. Such was the gift that came with being Red Bull’s golden goose. 

Marko had taken it well. Assured him that it’d probably be over with soon, but had also slipped in that they’d think of which driver to put in his car as a reserve if they needed to.

That had lit a flashpoint inside him. Thinking of someone else driving his car over the finish line, all because of his stupid fucking biology and stupid weakness making him unable to just get over it, had driven him crazy.

“It should be Pierre, if it comes to it. I don’t really get why there’s a question,” was all Dan had said when Max had vented to him. 

“Pierre? He fell apart in that fucking car last year. Like fuck he should get to go in it again!”

“So even though he’s been thrashing Daniil all year, you don’t want him to be in it,” said Dan, raising an eyebrow. “Any reason why?”

“He can’t cope with it,” said Max cooly. “Omegas in general can’t cope with a top car. We all saw that last year. He’s great in the Alpha Tauri, so he should stay there.”

“Omegas can’t cope with a top car? Are you listening to your fucking self?” asked Dan. “You’re a fucking omega Max. Just like Pierre. And you drive that car.”

“Yeah, but I’m not -“ and Max had seen a dangerous flash in Dan’s eyes that lit something in him. He got up, striding over to the older alpha. “That’s my fucking car,” 

“Yeah? It’s not gonna be on Sunday unless you sort your shit out.”

Max saw red then. He reached for Dan’s shirt, grabbing at him and pulling him up.

And Dan closed the gap between their lips, kissing him fiercely and licking his way into his mouth.

  
Max was surprised at first, but he wasn’t to be beaten at this. He kissed back even harder, sucking and biting at his lip. That got a moan out of the older man, his fingers sliding up into Max’s hair and tugging. The pain made heat curl in the pit of his stomach, and he tugged Dan towards the bedroom.

  
He fell back onto the bed, letting the older man kneel over him, crowding him against the mattress. Daniel slipped his shirt over his head, tossing it aside, and let Max roam his hands over his tanned, muscular torso as he reached for the bedside drawer.

  
Finding lube was easy, and he made quick work of getting Max’s clothes off. He’d stretched him out carefully, methodically, before thrusting into him. As Max felt Dan’s thick hard dick dragging along his internal walls, hitting his sweet spot, he’d come rather embarrassingly over his own stomach, his leaking cock completely untouched.

* * *

Once he’d got into the rhythm of fucking Dan, the symptoms had gradually started to diminish. He hadn’t been well enough to drive though, and so for the first time in years, he’d been stuck in front of the TV on the day of a grand prix instead of at the track.

Daniil had ended up getting his car for the weekend. One last chance to prove himself, Max supposed. Horner had rationalised it in an interview by saying that after last year, public comparison between Alex and Pierre would do neither of them good, no matter the way the race ended. 

He had to admit, watching the race on TV wasn’t all bad. It certainly hurt less than going to the track would have - he’d have wanted to physically rip the russian out of the car then. Here there was a screen in the way. And the rain would have meant he’d see very little looking out onto the track, which would have just frustrated him further.

And looking at the results, he was glad he was far, far away from the paddock for the Red Bull debrief. Alex had managed a decent P5, but Daniil had limped along the line in P11. To add insult to injury, Pierre had another Brazil moment, managing to drag his Alpha Tauri up to 3rd (Pierre had always been good in the rain, he had to admit), with Sergio managing to do well as the reserve and get 12th. 

He’d texted his congratulations to Pierre, watching as he stood on the podium next to Charles (of course he’d finally manage to win his home grand prix, the bastard) and his commiserations to Daniil. He thought it was better to leave Alex alone - he had achieved a decent result, but been beaten by the man they’d tried to prevent comparisons to.

When Dan finally got home, ready to fly out to Canada for the next one, Max had sucked him off. P6 in a Renault was to be respected (though Max got a thrill out of it being a Red Bull that had fended him off). They were going to go together - they'd talked about it, decided the sex was too good to give up, and that they were going to see where things went. 

It worked out fine for Max, since it meant he’d be able to have an alpha there as a failsafe while trying to figure out the weird suppressant regime that had been given to him by a doctor Pierre had given him the details of. Apparently in the right quantities for the right duration, you could temporarily dampen some of the hormones (which Pierre had said were why Esteban was such a fucking bitch at times) to keep performing at your best - but it’d need some experimentation and tweaking to get right.

  
And Max now knew was that this wasn’t going to stop him from getting back into his car and taking his title.

**Author's Note:**

> please feel free to check me out on tumblr over at @pierregasiy!


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